Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  Her eyes darkened as she recalled that the next day had come the usual summons to a deathbed, usually Will’s mother (chosen for dramatic effect) and off they had gone, along with the proceeds of the concert party. Why did we let him get away with it, Charlotte wondered now? He led Ma a merry dance and me along with her, always up to some shady or saucy lark or other and always on the verge of riches or ruin. Why? She gave the tiniest of shrugs. Because Will Glover had the devil’s own charm and at heart he was the kindest of men; he adored us and we adored him right back. But as she stared back down the years Charlotte realized her views had changed. Charm, adventure, adoration and an insouciant kindness, these were good qualities even in a man who had never been able to resist a gamble, a dare, a romp, but Charlotte knew in her heart that her mother had yearned always for peace and quiet, for solvency and safety, for respectability and a little settled home of her own. Molly, like Charlotte, had been suspicious of too much charm in the end, though she had never ceased from loving Will.

  Charlotte gave a quiet sigh. I prize honesty high above all other attributes, she thought. Only a man of the utmost probity could ever win me now; charm is not enough; it will never be enough. In her mind’s eye she had a glimpse, swiftly extinguished, of a man whose charm was rooted in his honesty and who had pressed her hand with warm and affectionate friendship as he bade farewell to her and to his wife on their journey to Bath.

  This would never do. Charlotte raised her eyes to the stage and tried to concentrate, banishing her innermost thoughts.

  A harpist was followed by a pianist who strummed inexpertly at a mournful passage, and in turn was succeeded by what was announced as ‘a charming troupe of dancers’, which turned out to be several ladies who pranced across the stage in slippered feet, taking turns to perform solo pirouettes while their fellows rested in attitudes of graceful admiration on benches to the side. Judged on the quality of the preceding acts, Charlotte was not surprised to see that the dancers ranged in age from about twelve to the shady side of forty, or that every size and shape of female seemed to be represented. Nor was she unduly surprised when a bench gave way with a loud crack, taking its occupants by surprise so that the audience was treated to a view of upended crinolines with feet waving frantically among the petticoats, accompanied by much wailing.

  Charlotte was snorting almost uncontrollably at the end of the first half of the performance. The only consolation, she concluded as she blew her nose and hastily mopped her eyes, was that she was not distinguishable in the darkness, nor when the lights rose, was she alone. A glance showed Elaine Knightley, slender shoulders heaving and her face buried in her hands while Charlotte’s favourite fellow guest, cynical old Lady Buckwell, was busy applying a dainty lace edged handkerchief to her usually sardonic green eyes, their sparkle discreetly concealed for once.

  Mr Attwell seemed, unfortunately, to be bent upon making up for his late entry into the courtship stakes and was offering the full range of intimate whispers, significant glances and heartfelt sighs, schooling his ferocious features into a semblance of politesse and now he was at her elbow with his mouth open to speak when he was forestalled, very skilfully, by the younger Comte de Kersac who bowed and asked if she would like him to fetch her a cup of tea or coffee.

  ‘You need not scruple to make use of me, Mrs Richmond,’ he smiled at her, with a politely dismissive nod to her other neighbour. ‘My father has requested a cup of coffee, though to be truthful he holds out no great hope of the coffee being drinkable. This being the case it would be my pleasure to obtain refreshment for you at the same time.’ He smiled down at her with marked affection in his expression. ‘To be sure, I hardly need ask. I am quite sure your answer will be that a cup of tea would be most welcome. Am I correct?’

  ‘Indeed you are, M. Armel,’ she laughed. ‘What a predictable creature of habit I must be. I confess though that a cup of tea is just what I should enjoy above all things.’ She rose from her seat and shook her head at Mr Attwell who rose eagerly with her. ‘No, no, Mr Attwell, you should attend to your mother while I must go to talk to Mrs Knightley and discover how she is enjoying this wonderful treat.’

  Ignoring the volcanic rumblings that arose from this treatment of the fiery cleric, and seeing from afar that Mrs Smith was headed in her direction, crocodile teeth all agleam, Charlotte took Marianne by the hand and escaped to the side of the room where she ascertained that Elaine Knightley was quite comfortable and being waited upon by Captain Penbury and a very tall young man with curly brown hair who had attached himself to their party. He smiled at Marianne de Kersac and bent to speak to her while the captain explained that his new friend was a mathematical lecturer at Oxford and here in pursuit of his new hobby of photography. Charlotte was intrigued.

  ‘I only wish I could have had photographs of my mother and stepfather,’ she sighed as she admired the photographic cartes de visites their new acquaintance was showing to her and Marianne. ‘As it is, they live on only in my memory.’

  To her surprise the normally timid little French girl was chattering with great animation to the tall young man, but when Captain Penbury bent down also to engage her in ponderous conversation, she became dumb and he turned away looking downcast.

  ‘I am so sorry, madame,’ the child whispered to Charlotte. ‘But I never can think of anything to say to gentlemen.’

  ‘Never mind, my dear,’ Charlotte comforted her. ‘Just do as my godmother and my stepfather both advised me. When you are feeling very shy you should curtsy while you are thinking what to say. Something will usually occur to you while you are bobbing up and down.’

  ‘What good advice,’ the young Oxford scholar remarked, his grey-blue eyes alight with amusement. ‘I must make a note of that.’ To Charlotte’s amusement he took out a small writing tablet and held his pencil in readiness. ‘What was it you said?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her. ‘Curtsy while you are thinking.…’

  Across the handsome room Charlotte espied Armel de Kersac carefully carrying a tray. ‘Come, Marianne, we must say goodbye for the moment. I see your papa with my cup of tea and your glass of lemonade.’

  They nodded to their new friend and took their places again and as she drank her tea Charlotte’s gaze flickered round the room as she recalled once more the late detective’s advice. Here she was at a party indeed, and surrounded by Mr Tibbins’s quarry; could she use those powers of observation that he had admired in her, to discover something about his death?

  Had she been mistaken about the change of atmosphere? But no, there was Mrs Montgomery deep in conversation with Mr Chettle and both of them wearing prodigious scowls. Goodness me, how intriguing; a frown creased her own brow as she tried to imagine the topic of their discussion. And who else? Lady Buckwell and Mrs Attwell were now engaged in some unexceptionable talk, along with Captain Penbury who had somehow, Charlotte was thankful to note, become detached from the clinging attentions of the drooping Melicent Dunwoody. Lady Buckwell wore her usual air but Mrs Attwell and the captain both sported abstracted frowns.

  The two French gentlemen were in attendance on herself and appeared at first glance to have not a care in the world other than making sure that she was enjoying her cup of tea. At second glance however, it was plain to see that the elder count had withdrawn into himself again while his son, determined upon charming Charlotte herself, was shooting frequent surreptitious glances at his father, and frowning anxiously each time that he did so.

  There was no doubt about it, she told herself, whatever had frightened them all so much when the detective was alive, was still giving rise to considerable unease even now. I wish so much, Mr Tibbins, she sighed, that you were here with me. I can see, just as you told me, that they seem disturbed away from their usual places, but what am I to make of that? Is it merely a fading of the first excitement of being so near to something shocking, or is there something new that makes them so uneasy?

  After the enthralling disasters of the first half of the concert, Charl
otte settled down to enjoy the remainder of the evening which was apparently to consist of recitations and playlets, commencing with a series of tableaux taken from history. There was a dramatic swish of the curtain to reveal several stout Roman soldiers who seemed to resemble the troupe of dancing girls and were clad in sundry draperies, with papier mâché helmets as they stood, allegedly on the shores of Britain, and made threatening gestures at a couple of dispirited ancient Britons who shook their fists with obvious reluctance.

  This stirring episode in British history was succeeded by a despondent King Harold lying on the floor, quite failing to convince the audience that the point of the arrow he clutched in his fist was actually in his eye, rather than concealed down the side of his head. The Conqueror gloated realistically in front of him.

  Queen Elizabeth and Raleigh, Cromwell and Charles I, all appeared before the audience and Charlotte was congratulating herself that she was managing very creditably not to laugh when the curtains were drawn back with a flourish upon the next scene which was not to be a mere tableau, but a dramatic rendering.

  A rough scaffold had been raised and was surrounded by what Charlotte recognized as the former Roman soldiers who, in later incarnations had appeared as Normans, Tudor courtiers, Royalists and Roundheads alike. This time they purported to be an angry mob, shaking their fists at a woman clad in gaudy finery presumably denoting her status as an aristocrat and trampler of the poor.

  Charlotte was a trifle uncertain, at first, as to which particular episode in history this scene represented but a roll of drums soon informed her and she drew a sharp breath as the woman knelt and placed her head on a block, to the accompaniment of jeers from the spectators and a denunciation of her alleged crimes by a fiery orator. The lights were dimmed even further, one of the musicians played a swooshing downward note on his violin to denote the fall of the guillotine; there was a clash of cymbals, a gasp, and a burly man in black held up a papier mâché head clad in a powdered wig. The chastened mob now wept and wailed but Queen Marie Antoinette had met her untimely end.

  Charlotte had felt a momentary amusement at the dreadful, stilted performance, but was immediately aware of a sudden stillness in the elder Comte de Kersac, sitting next but one to her, beside his granddaughter, Marianne. Oh my God, she bit her lip, recalling the brief nuggets of information about his childhood that the old man had let slip. He told me his mother was guillotined, I remember now. What an unfortunate subject to hit upon. On an impulse she slipped an unobtrusive arm behind the little girl and gave a gentle squeeze to the dark-clad shoulder held in so upright and rigid a posture. As if returning from that icy wilderness of the past that seemed to be both refuge and torment, M. de Kersac slowly turned his head to her. His pale-blue eyes glistened with unaccustomed dew and it was clear to Charlotte that he was considerably discomposed but he rallied and summoned up a smile as he thanked her with a slight inclination of his head.

  The rest of the performance was quickly over, with bows and smiles from the performers and repeated cheers from an audience whose unbridled delight must surely betoken close acquaintance and possibly even closer relationship; and sooner than she thought possible Charlotte was retracing her steps from the Assembly Rooms and back to Waterloo House, walking as before in attendance upon Elaine Knightley’s Bath chair.

  ‘Pray do not fuss, Charlotte,’ Elaine remonstrated. ‘I am tired, I confess, but that’s quite natural, you know. I rarely go out at night and I shall go straight to bed. But make no mistake, I found this evening’s entertainment so unexpectedly delightful and I’m only too sorry that Kit could not have been here too. He would so much have enjoyed the dancing troupe and poor King Harold.’

  Knowing how stubborn Elaine could be where her health was concerned Charlotte let the topic alone. The slight improvement in her friend’s health still appeared to be in force but Charlotte had not been unaware, during the period of that improvement, of the occasional sharp intake of breath that was so hastily concealed. During the sole gem of the evening, an unexpectedly touching song from a short stout woman of uncertain age whose appearance was against her but who sang like a nightingale, a glance across the assembly room had revealed Elaine looking drained for a moment, her eyes screwed shut against an obvious spasm of discomfort. No use, Charlotte knew, to mention that glimpse; Elaine would laugh and disclaim all knowledge of it, but was it her heart, weak from childhood, or something else that lay unseen and deadly?

  To distract her anxious thoughts, Charlotte managed an elaborately casual glance around such members of the group from Waterloo House as were nearby. There was no question, something was concerning several of her fellow guests and there were frowns and drawn-down mouths a-plenty.

  As Mrs Montgomery was assembling her party before leaving the Rooms, Charlotte noticed what seemed to be an altercation, conducted in furious undertones, between the simmering and resentful Mr Attwell and his dominant mother, but Mr Attwell, she realized, spent most of his days on the edge of an angry outburst and in any case they broke off their conversation when she drifted closer and were now stalking silently down the hill, their large feet carrying them ahead of the pack. M. de Kersac was looking pale and old, but surely it was nothing more than the natural fatigue of a man, already elderly, who, during an expedition that extended late into the evening, had been reminded of the unimaginable tragedies of his youth? If that were solely the case, though, why did the old man stare at his son with so anxious a regard? M. Armel de Kersac had never appeared to be disturbed by the late Mr Tibbins; it was rather the case that the detective’s attentions had been directed at the elder French gentleman. But she could not be mistaken; it was the younger count who was now frowning and the elder who watched him with anxiety in those chill, pale eyes.

  Mr Simeon Chettle, her funereal neighbour from Hampshire, was walking down the hill in animated and, it had to be admitted, intimate conversation with the other governess, Dora Benson. Charlotte sighed and thought of her poor sister-in-law, Agnes, so newly married to Dora’s own brother. I don’t want Mr Chettle to propose to Dora, she shuddered. Imagine her living a mere half mile up the road from Agnes and Percy at the vicarage; why, it would never do. Tomorrow, she decided, she would try to detach Dora from Mr Chettle and push her under the large and rubicund nose of Captain Penbury who lived somewhere in Kent or Sussex, she believed, but wherever it was it was certainly at a safe distance from Hampshire.

  As they reached the square in which Waterloo House was situated Charlotte observed Mr Chettle from under the tilted brim of her frivolous little straw hat. A hasty movement had attracted her gaze and she saw him turn to stare at the group thronged about the cab which had drawn up at their destination. His expression startled her, that heavy, beetling brow loomed darkly enough at any time, nature had already seen to that, but just at this moment there was something angry and brooding about his glare, then the moment passed and he returned to his conversation with Dora Benson.

  Curious to discover who was the recipient of that lowering stare Charlotte craned her neck to observe the party, only to be baffled even further. Mrs Montgomery was there, as was only fitting; it was her house and her party after all. Captain Penbury was leaning out of the carriage to hand down Lady Buckwell who, displaying not a scrap of exhaustion, looked most ungrateful for his attention bestowing her hand upon a surprised Mr Attwell as he reached up to assist her. The clergyman then turned to perform the same office for Melicent Dunwoody only to be surprised by a tirade from the gallant naval gentleman, his normally bluff features suffused with an angry flush.

  ‘How dare you, sir. Unhand Miss Dunwoody this instant. Do you think I have not noticed, sir, how you have pressed your unwelcome attentions upon the lady? Hey? Hey? Enticing her to sit beside you for the second half of tonight’s performance when you were very well aware that the lady was engaged to sit beside me? Hey? Hey?’

  Before Decimus Attwell could do more than open his mouth in complete astonishment at this attack upon him, Captain Pe
nbury gathered more steam and continued to upbraid his fellow guest.

  ‘Aye, I thought that would make you take notice, sir. It is all the same with you sneaking fellows with your mealy-mouthed manners. Do not think that your cloth will protect you, it does not, sir. Most assuredly it does not.’

  Knowing that Elaine was in the safe hands of her own maid and with the additional assistance, if required, of the solicitous chair-man, Charlotte hesitated on the pavement outside Waterloo House. Had the captain run mad? She was not the only person present to come to that conclusion.

  ‘How dare you impugn my son, sir,’ burst out Mrs Attwell, in furious support of her son who, Charlotte was not surprised to observe, did not appear at all grateful. ‘How can you suppose that he would harbour pretensions to that whey-faced little nobody. He would not lower himself, I can assure you.’

  ‘Mother!’ With a furious reddening of his face The Revd Mr Attwell turned on his strong-minded parent. ‘Hold your tongue. Have you not done enough to ruin my happiness in the past? Do you wish me to instance the number of occasions upon which your meddling and jumping to unwarranted conclusions has caused nothing but embarrassment and heartache to me? Shame upon you, madam, this is the last straw. You will do me the honour of making arrangements to move out of the vicarage when we return home. The Glebe cottage will make a very suitable residence and I will, of course, provide for you and a limited household appropriate to your position. I …’ His pause was quite sufficiently theatrical as to make his audience aware that something of moment was about to occur. ‘I should inform you that I am considering setting up an establishment of my own.’

  With this dramatic, and all too public, announcement, the beleaguered clergyman turned on his heel, even his balding dome glowing with temper, and stalked up the short flight of steps to the front door leaving his mother and Charlotte alone on the pavement, Captain Penbury having marched indoors with the shrinking governess limping beside him. And clinging possessively to his arm, Charlotte had observed with a wry smile; it was becoming plain that not only did the bluff naval captain harbour intentions towards Miss Dunwoody but that the lady was only too determined to bring him to the point of proposal. Only Lady Buckwell lingered in the lighted doorway as if reluctant to abandon so promising a drama; however, she caught Charlotte’s eye, shooting her a grin of that mingled commiseration with pure mischief, and shrugged her way into the house.